


sic currite ut comprehendatis (so run, that ye may obtain)

by houfukuseisaku



Category: Evillious Chronicles
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Catharsis: the Fic, Multi, Pre-OSS Novel Headcanons, Pseudo Time Travel Fix-It, Two Hands Agenda, half the tagged characters only appear in the third chapter so like. yeah.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-14
Updated: 2019-12-19
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:33:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21786790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/houfukuseisaku/pseuds/houfukuseisaku
Summary: No, the karma of evil will not end on its own.It will end when you choose to end it.It ends by your own hands.For those who seek forgiveness must also learn to forgive themselves.
Relationships: Alice Merry-Go-Round & Amostia, Elluka Chirclatia/Kiril Clockworker, Gammon Octo/Adam Moonlit/Eve Zvezda/Meta Salmhofer
Comments: 3
Kudos: 23





	1. So run,

**Author's Note:**

> ~~i see possible gammon reincarnation in the oss novel preview, i think about the ot4 possibilities, i go feral go stupit aaaah -- feya "houfuku" aerforce~~
> 
> so. how bout that oss novel preview huh. this is me writing in a frenzy of sleeplessness in a desperate attempt to cram in one more two hands agenda fic before mothy topples over my characterization headcanons like a house of cards
> 
> this _also_ is me taking a couple of [Katadenza](https://archiveofourown.org/users/katadenza)'s hcs (yegor's role in apocalypse, the White Room) and just going ham with them. oh and also ***forcibly inducts gammon into the Two Hands Agenda*** welcome to the club
> 
> * * *
> 
> EDIT: PIE IN MY FACE PIE IN MY FACE GAMMON ISNT YEGOR GAMMON IS GAMMON GODDAMNIT MOTHY AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH
> 
> for the purpose of this fic. *please* pretend gammon and yegor are the same person. blease

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _You’re selling me out to save your own skin,_ Yegor realizes, but there’s no point in saying that out loud.
> 
> Not anymore.

Yegor’s in a bind.

The first project had failed, and he’d lost track of Adam. It was only on the Queen’s good graces that they hadn’t executed him for his catastrophic blunder. Pale cared not for his mistake, but Pale didn’t care much for anything besides the thrill of destruction. After all, the logistics of all their schemes was all the product of Yegor’s planning, not him.

Which was fine. He could deal with that. Having had to deal with his unrequited affection and jealousy for the love between the prince and his test subject? Fine. Having Adam and Eve running off to elope in Heldogort? Fine. Having to go through all the re-education drills again, to make sure that he’s still worthy of living, under the critical eye of the Senate? _Fine._

But the riots, Meta’s disappearance, Raisa’s _death_ —

That was where he drew the line.

“We’re down half the team and you still have the gall to laugh it off?” Yegor remembers asking, only to feel the full weight of Pale’s stare like a million daggers aimed at his eyes.

“Don’t worry your pretty little head about it,” Pale had crooned, a cocky smirk gracing his lips as always, “After all, you should know better than me that people are _expendable_. Aren’t they, Black Baron?”

A chill ran down his spine at Pale’s cold words, back then. Yes, he had sent many men off to do his bidding before, probably to their deaths. Extortion rackets, decoys, canon fodder to throw against MKL’s ever-present forces and all that. But to him, they were faceless grunts, nothing more than numbers fluctuating with every recruitment drive and every public insurgence.

Was that how Pale saw them, saw him? Expendable?

“Besides,” Pale had muttered, snickering, “Meta is… alive, at least. I merely used her as a _bargaining chip_ for our safety.”

_You sold her out to save your own skin_ , Yegor realized, but he managed to bite his lip before saying that. No point doing that when Pale’s clearly not quite in control of things.

No, no point painting a target on his own back.

* * *

What to do now, though…

He’s yet to receive his new orders from either Pale or Alice, confined to his apartment ever since the riots. No way to contact either of them, not that he’d want to, and no way to know his fate.

“Yegor Asayev.”

He’s shaken from his thoughts by a rough hand pulling him up, pushing him out the door. He wonders where they’re taking him—frog-marching him really, muzzles of guns pressed to both sides of his head—before the Institute shortly comes into view.

But he doesn’t get any answers until he’s deep inside the bowels of the labyrinthine dungeons below the Institute. And, to his gobsmacked surprise, a familiar face waits for him at the end of a long, dark hallway which leads to a single doorway.

The man raises an eyebrow, dismissing his men with a casual wave. When they’re gone, he rakes his eyes across Yegor’s body, sizing him up.

“The Black Baron, I presume?”

Yegor seizes up at the epithet, surreptitiously glancing around him in fear of someone else overhearing. But no, it’s just the two of them. Him and this strange man who looks the spitting image of Pale.

The man who’s polite enough to wait for him to calm his nerves, simply clasping his hands together in front of his chest.

“…I don’t know what you mean—”

“Oh, no need to play coy!” The man laughs, and Yegor can’t help but hear Pale’s voice echoing within that laughter. “My dear twin brother has told me all about your troubles, Mr. Asayev.”

Twin brother? “Then, you’re Pale’s—”

“It’s a complicated thing,” the man sighs, and he hasn’t even given Yegor a name, how rude, “but no need to linger on that. I’ve heard of your,” a pause, “failure… to keep the prince in check, so I’m here to give you a second chance. Alice herself recommended you as well.”

Silence. Yegor’s face is frozen in a mixture of incredulity and distrust. This man knows both the Master of Malice and the Prophet Queen?

“Ah, forgive me, I’ve forgotten to introduce myself.” Clicking his tongue, the man gives just the slightest bow before his lips curl into a smile that shows far too much teeth for Yegor’s liking. “My name is Seth Twiright, head scientist of the second Project Ma, and my task for you is to watch over…”

With the push of a button, the single door unlocks, swinging inwards to reveal a stark white room, empty of all features save for a woman chained to a chair, a woman with a very familiar face—

“My candidate, Meta Salmhofer.”

* * *

The weeks fly by in a haze, and not once has his former fellow criminal looked him in the eye.

Yegor understands. He wouldn’t know what to do if he met Meta’s gaze, either.

Seth has her kept in what he’s dubbed the White Room, and only Yegor is allowed to bring her food and drink. He can’t imagine being held in her position, chained up and treated like a wild animal.

Not to mention all the antimagic runes inked into the walls, hidden by virtue of being white paint on white. Even being in the vicinity of the room is enough to set off Yegor’s fight or flight response, despite not having much magic potential himself.

Maybe she already has become a wild animal, with the way she pulls wildly at her restraints and bares her teeth when Yegor comes too close. He’s surprised she hasn’t tried to bite her, but then Seth allows him to witness one of his _tests_ that he so often runs on her and he’s not surprised anymore.

He’s also more than a little bit sickened by the scientist’s clear disregard for ethics and clear preference for electrocution.

It’s one of those days when there’s nothing scheduled for Meta that Yegor lingers just a bit longer than usual, watching her tear apart her meal, the cracking and grinding of bones and gristle being the only sound filling the silence.

When her feeding frenzy slows to a lethargic nibbling on whatever’s left, Yegor makes a move to leave, but a hoarse, scratchy voice has him rooted to the spot.

“Where’s Pale?”

Not once in all this time has Meta spoken to him, and the first thing that comes out of her mouth is to ask about the man who abandoned her?

Yegor wants to laugh, or cry, or some combination of the two.

He only wanted to do what’s right, topple the gilded, corrupted cage of MKL’s government from the inside out.

> (He had ideals, once.)
> 
> (He isn’t sure if anyone else in Apocalypse shares his ideals, not anymore.)
> 
> (What he is sure of, is that Pale only looks out for himself.)

His prolonged silence is answer enough for Meta, who lets out a guttural, heart-rending wail when he leaves without a word, locking the door behind him.

On the way out of the dungeons, he passes by Seth, who only gives him an all-too-knowing smile.

* * *

The fated day comes and goes, and Yegor watches out of the corner of his eye as Meta gazes longingly at the glass tubes holding her twin children captive.

Belatedly, he wonders if she’s ever been loved.

> (He might have loved her, once.)
> 
> (Him and her and Raisa, stuck in Pale’s shadow, with only each other to depend on for some scrap of fondness.)
> 
> (And like a fool, he’s only realized it after it’s far too late.)

* * *

Meta runs, taking the god twins with her.

Yegor, sure that he’s signing his own death sentence, turns a blind eye to her escape.

> (He hopes she makes it to Heldogort, and that the forest god will be kind and merciful enough to shelter her, as heretical as that may sound.)

* * *

Queen Alice’s disappointed gaze is a far harsher punishment than anything else.

But there’s also a spark of relief, and that confuses him more than anything.

Once again, he’s jailed in the confines of his own home, placed under house arrest until the Senate can figure out what to do with him.

The days turn to weeks turn to months turn to years.

Yegor feels himself wasting away, and revels in the irony of it all.

Famine, indeed.

* * *

One night, Yegor awakens to the sound of shattering glass and a muffled scuffle.

Then Pale is there, having broken in through his window, wild-eyed and not quite in control of things.

And there’s a girl bound, blindfolded and gagged in his arms.

The 4th Project Ma candidate.

“Kill her,” Pale hisses, before Yegor finds a gun pressed into his hands and a blade pressed to his throat.

He’s wrong.

Adam and Eve’s escape wasn’t enough to ensure his execution.

Meta’s escape wasn’t enough to ensure his execution.

This, however, will be.

_You’re selling me out to save your own skin_ , Yegor realizes, but there’s no point in saying that out loud. Not anymore.

> (And like a fool, he’s only realized how _expendable_ he is after it’s far too late.)

Squeezing his eyes shut, Yegor pulls the trigger—

* * *

The Queen herself visits him in the White Room.

She says nothing, but her tired gaze is more than enough.

Yegor feels the full weight of it like a million daggers aimed at his eyes.

“Failure,” she spits, pressing two glass bottles into his hands. And then she leaves, and the door is locked behind her.

He looks down at her final presents to him.

One, a bottle of murky green liquid that smells like roses.

> (He knows what it is. He’s helped enough with Raisa’s alchemy-brewing sessions to recognize Gift anywhere. And with a dose this potent…)

The other, a bottle containing a rolled-up parchment.

What kind of choice is this?

Die, or—

Yegor retrieves the message from the bottle, and then he wants to laugh, or cry, or some combination of the two.

Hidden in its folds, a single key clatters to the floor.

And written on it, a single word.

> (“Live.”)

* * *

Like Adam and Eve and Meta before him, Yegor runs.

Deep into the heart of the forest, with only the moon and the stars in the evening sky to guide him, he makes his escape.

* * *

_Sitting in her parlour, Alice sips at her cup of tea, wondering idly if her parents would be furious at her latest failure in a string of absolute failures._

_She hears footfalls behind her, closer and closer, until there’s a pair of ice-cold hands wrapped around her neck._

_“The prisoner has escaped from the White Room,” there isn’t any wrath in Seth’s voice, only a quiet, tired disappointment._

_She cranes her neck to look at him looming above her, his eyes glinting in the shadows, pupils slitted like a snake’s._

_“Is that so?” She croons, revelling in her victory. “What a surprise!”_

_Silence._

_“…If that’s the way you want to play it, then two can play at this game, Irina.”_

_And then she’s dragged deep into the bowels of the labyrinthine dungeons below the Institute._

_And then she’s in the White Room, and Seth locks the door behind him._

_And then she’s left all alone._

> (But that’s alright, because this loop is only the beginning.)
> 
> (They have all the time in the world, after all.)

* * *

The forest is dark, far too dark, and Yegor’s not one for regrets but he can feel the shadows and his sins crawling up his back.

He feels like he’s running out of… running out of what? Energy? Time? Second chances?

With lungs burning, legs aching, and arms full of scratches from the branches and thorns, he runs, and runs, and runs, and—

Falls into the embrace of someone he hasn’t seen in a long time.

“Oh dear,” Eve tuts, fretting over his condition and pressing a red, red fruit into his hands, “this isn’t a night to be out and about, Mr. Asayev. There might be bears in the woods!”

With only a half-hearted struggle, Yegor lets Eve lead him to a cottage, warm firelight streaming through the windows.

He steps inside and sees Adam and Meta playing with the god twins before they look up at him in surprise and understanding and feels Eve draping her arms around his shoulders and he, and he—

He doesn’t know whether to laugh, or cry, or some combination of the two.

So Yegor does both, laughing and crying, because there is no Alice or Pale or Seth to keep his mouth shut around anymore, and revels in the irony of it all.


	2. That ye may obtain.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yegor stays behind. This is his sin to carry.

Yegor’s in a bind.

He stumbles out of the room, blanket draped across his shoulders.

What Pale wants, Pale takes, and—well, it was _his_ turn to be Pale’s bedwarmer, apparently. Yegor’s no stranger to this, he’s shared his nights with Pale and Raisa and Meta many times before, but. Well… that isn’t the thing on his mind, right now.

He makes his way through the stronghold’s corridors, lost in a dreamlike haze, until he comes out onto one of the balconies that open up to the midnight sky.

There, leaning against the railing, Meta swirls her glass of booze before taking a sip.

He wants to say something, but his throat is suddenly all-too-dry, lips chapped and parched at the sight of the Red Witch gazing longingly at the stars.

“Yegor?” A voice catches him by surprise, a hand on his back, guiding him forward. The White Demon, just finished with one of her nightly meditation sessions, takes his hand in hers until they’re both illuminated by the full moonlight.

Meta jerks, twisting around to face them. Her look of guarded wariness fades to recognition. She nods, raising her free hand in a greeting. “Yegor. Raisa. Good evening.”

“Bit too late for evening, hm.” Raisa murmurs, sneaking a glance Yegor’s way. “Want a smoke, Yegor?”

“I… yes—” When did his hands start shaking? “Please.”

Raisa wordlessly hands him a cigarette from her pack, taking one for herself before stowing the rest away. She snaps her fingers and a small flame of yellow phosphorus comes alive between her fingertips.

Yegor tries to light his stick, but keeps missing the mark. Raising an eyebrow, Raisa pulls the flame to her own tip, snuffing out her conjured fire before leaning over to give Yegor a cigarette kiss.

He coughs as the nicotine and the static floods his lungs and his head, prompting Meta to pat his back, concern now written obvious across her face.

“What’s up?” She asks, taking in his haphazard appearance with a quick glance. “Did Pale go too rough on you? Stab you a bit too much?”

Yegor manages to bark out a laugh at that, almost choking himself on the burning feeling that settles on his tongue. Now both Raisa and Meta are staring at him. He shrinks under the combined weight of their eyes, feeling for all the world like he’s being stripped bare for the very first time.

“Not that,” he rasps, though he doesn’t deny it. None of them are unfamiliar with Pale’s particularly violent brand of _love_ , one that comes with the promise of blades and blood. There’s been plenty times before when one of them has had to be patched up by another after some knifeplay goes too far. “I… I’m—”

And how he hates the tremble in his voice. Where has the Black Baron gone, with his command and control over legions of expendable underlings to do his bidding? No, now there’s only Yegor Asayev, tired and quiet and maybe just a little bit scared.

“I’ve gotten an order from Alice,” Yegor says, not bothering to speak of the Prophet Queen by her proper title. What use is there for respect among criminals? “She’s assigned me to bodyguard duty, to the prince.”

Silence, then, as Raisa and Meta digest the news and the hidden meaning behind his words.

“You’re going to be away for some time, huh.” Raisa hums, blowing a cloud of grey into the cool night air. “Well, for your sake, I hope he doesn’t turn out to be a brat. Otherwise we’ll have to kill him.”

Meta chuckles at Raisa’s bluntness, draining the last dregs of alcohol from her glass. “Prince Adam… I’ve seen him on a broadcast before,” she admits, shaking her head. “Seems to be the real stuck-up type, to be honest.”

“Well, that settles it. You bring him here, and we’ll just take care of him for you.”

Even Yegor cannot hide a smile at Raisa’s deadpan delivery, but his bemusement quickly fades. “I really, really wish I could do that, girls, but I doubt it. He’s… he’s the one in charge of Project Ma.”

“Ah.”

“Ah.”

There’s definitely no chance of Adam being drawn out to their hideout. And no chance of Yegor escaping the ever-watching eyes of the Senate. He’ll just have to grit his teeth and go along with the farce until he can figure out what to do. He’s supposed to be the brains of the organization, after all.

“When are you leaving?” Meta asks, gripping his chin and forcing him to meet her eyes.

“Before dawn.”

“You’ll be busy the whole time?” Raisa asks, twirling a lock of his hair around her fingers.

“Yeah, I guess.”

Silence.

Then, as one, they both lean in to give him a kiss on his cheeks, short and chaste. Nothing that would betray this—fragile, unspoken _thing_ between the three of them. Nothing that would show weakness that could be twisted by the man whose shadow they hide in. That could wait until after, when this whole ordeal is done over with and Yegor’s returned to their ranks, successful and alive.

“Don’t get yourself killed,” Raisa warns, red eyes unusually soft and kind.

“And don’t fall in love, either,” Meta teases, though her tone is only half-joking.

“Of course,” Yegor promises, squeezing his eyes shut to stop the tears that threaten to fall. “Anything, for you.”

None of them could’ve known that they wouldn’t be able to keep that promise.

* * *

Adam, as it turns out, is a completely and utterly stuck-up brat.

Sure, he has a way with words that seems to captivate the people around him, and his charisma is certainly something Yegor didn’t expect, but that doesn’t change the fact that Adam is as proud as a peacock preening its feathers for everyone to see.

Not only that, but from the moment they were introduced to each other, Adam seems to look down on him with something akin to disgusted curiosity. Like he wants nothing more than to pick Yegor apart and put him back together in a way that amuses and satisfies him.

Yegor will just have to grit his teeth and go along with the farce until he can figure out what to do.

More surprising is the prince-scientist’s apparent fascination with poison. It isn’t often that Yegor’s allowed in his private laboratory, but sometimes Adam forgets about his need for secrecy and asks for Yegor to aid him in his experiments, and what can Yegor do but comply like the dutiful bodyguard he is?

It’s one of those days when Yegor decides to scrutinize the numerous containers lining the walls of the lab, most of them labelled with names that he can’t even begin to pronounce. Though, there are some of them he recognizes; the Clockwork medicine, the Marry-Go-Round cure, the Adam drug. Ah, that explains the name.

“Like what you see?” Adam croons, catching Yegor by surprise. Was his staring too obvious? “I made all of these all by myself, just to treat that pesky HER syndrome that’s been making its rounds among the people. Impressive, no?”

“It is,” Yegor replies, only half-sarcastic. Another bottle in his peripheral vision piques his attention. “Is that… Gift?”

“Oh, you know of it?” Adam seems genuinely astonished that he recognizes what it is, maybe even a little bit pleased. “Yes, the sleeping aid, Gift. I’ve painstakingly recreated it from old Netsuma alchemy manuals, then further refined and perfected it. Those savages are truly idiots, to have let such a useful thing be forgotten.”

Yegor doesn’t have the heart to tell him that Raisa would probably gut him from head to toe for that disparaging comment, so he keeps quiet. Adam takes that as a sign to continue.

“Made from the ground-up roots of the Greeonion plateau roses, this Gift is wonderful but _dangerous_ thing,” the murky blue-green liquid swirls in its glass prison as Adam holds it up to the light. “You’ve got to get the dosage exactly right, because even a drop too much will lead to death.”

And then, something strange happens. A sort of wistful melancholy flickers over Adam’s face, one that Yegor would’ve missed if he wasn’t paying such close attention.

“My mother… the Queen, she always keeps requesting that I keep making it for her,” whispering, Adam clutches the vial close to his chest, lost in thought. “Is she having trouble sleeping? Does she dream of reuniting with me? I’ll never be able to know, not with the Senate—not with Seth standing in my way!”

“Adam, you—"

“Ah.”

In his blind rage, Adam had crushed the bottle in his hands, blood and poison mixing together and dripping down his arms. Yegor rushes to wipe it off him with a nearby rag, picking out the shards of glass and applying disinfectant before wrapping Adam’s hands in gauze.

Throughout that, Adam stares at Yegor with a strange look on his face, barely flinching from the pain. Even when Yegor finishes and releases his hands, he doesn’t raise or lower or otherwise shift his gaze in any way.

“…Prince?” Yegor can feel sweat beading on his forehead. Had he done something wrong?

“Don’t call me that.”

“What? Then how should I—”

“Say my name.” There’s a wild look in his eyes now, something feral and desperate and _yearning_. “You said it just now. Say it again.”

His throat is suddenly all-too-dry, lips chapped and parched at the sight of him, the person who is his burden and responsibility, commanding and controlling him.

“I… yes—” When did his hands start shaking? “Okay.”

He rolls the syllables around on his tongue first, testing the name in silence before raising his voice, just barely above a whisper.

“Adam.”

Adam shivers, holding his bandaged hands up to his face. But his eyes are still trained on Yegor between his fingers, and Yegor shrinks under the heavy weight of that gaze, feeling for all the world like he’s being stripped bare for the very first time.

And then… and then there are arms slung around his neck, pulling him down, and his lips are captured in a kiss, short and chaste. Nothing that would betray this—fragile, unspoken _thing_ between the two of them. Nothing that would show weakness that could be twisted by the obligations and duty they are bound by.

“Yegor,” Adam whispers, and Yegor realizes with a jolt that Adam, too, has never said his name until now, that they are the same in that regard, “promise me something.”

“Yes?” Yegor breathes, eyelids fluttering. The vapours of the spilt Gift must be getting to him, fog and static flooding his lungs and his head.

“There is a girl in the village of Nemu, by the name of Eve. I’ve chosen her as my candidate, so I need her to fall in love with me,” there’s a small glass bottle being pressed into his hands. _Venom_ , the label reads, scrawled in hasty handwriting. “Can you do that, for me?”

Silence, then, as he digests the words and the hidden plea behind them.

“Of course,” Yegor promises, squeezing his eyes shut to stop the tears that threaten to fall. “Anything, for you.”

And in an act of equivalent exchange, one promise is made as another is broken.

* * *

Eve, far too trusting for her own good, is easily snared by the Venom’s claws and fangs.

She’s a childish and innocent girl, which makes Yegor feel absolutely disgusting as he continues to spike her food and drink with that foul brainwashing poison. The guilt eats at him, and how laughable is that? The Black Baron would’ve paid no heed to such things, would’ve stooped to any low to recruit more followers for Apocalypse, willing or otherwise.

No, now there’s only Yegor Asayev, loyal assistant to Adam Moonlit and caretaker of Eve Zvezda during her stay in the Institute.

They’ve graciously given her a spacious room in one of the towers, with its own indoor garden. When she’s not busy being examined and tested for the upcoming operation, and when Adam’s too busy with work and supervision over the project’s intricacies, it falls to Yegor to keep an eye on her and keep her entertained, compliant, and most importantly, _lovesick_.

Every hour they’re separated, she pines after Adam, weaving flower crowns and composing songs in anticipation of his return. The garden thrives under her thumb, far more vibrant and colourful than any garden Yegor’s seen before. But her voice is by far the loveliest thing about her.

An evening comes and Yegor finds her perched upon the windowsill, legs folded close to her chest. She’s singing a mournful ballad of some sort, almost like a funeral dirge. Most of the lyrics are unfamiliar to him—words specific to the Heldogortian region, perhaps, that don’t translate well, perhaps—but the meaning comes across all the same.

So deep is he in his thoughts, that he doesn’t notice the song trailing off into silence, doesn’t notice Eve stepping closer and closer until they’re practically pressed flush against each other.

“Mr. Asayev?” Eve hums, softly. “Penny for your thoughts?”

“My lady,” stammering, Yegor takes a step back, presenting the flowers he had bought and gathered. “Here. The plants you’ve requested. Blue Marlon lotuses, red Leviantan marigolds, and Greeonion plateau roses.”

“Wonderful,” laughing, Eve gracefully accepts and appraises them, a pout curling her lips when she realizes something wrong, something missing. “No Asmodean asters, though?”

“Unfortunately, no.” Before, it wouldn’t have mattered if he couldn’t complete a task; usually he’d be the taskmaster instead. But Eve’s disappointment is a palpable thing, and Yegor finds that he has to look away, ashamed. “According to the flower vendors, they have yet to bloom, my lady.”

“What a pity. Those would suit you so nicely.”

Startled, Yegor’s voice pitches an octave higher. “E-excuse me?”

“Well, of course!” Eve seems surprised at his surprise. “Purple is very much your colour, isn’t it?”

“Oh… then, the rest?”

“Mm. The roses are for me, the lotuses, Adam. Marigolds…” Trailing off, a wistful melancholy flickers across Eve’s face; Yegor is struck by an intense sensation of déjà vu. “There was a girl I met in Held’s Forest, once. A street urchin, I believe.”

A pause. Yegor fidgets; the story is uncomfortably familiar. It is Meta’s story, isn’t it? Her past, shared with him in a moment of solitude, so he holds his tongue. Eve takes that as a sign to continue.

“She looked hungry, so I gave her some fruits before we parted ways. I never saw her again. These are for her. For that forest girl with fire in her heart. I wish I could see her again. I wish…”

And then, she curls in on herself, stumbling backward, the flowers falling to the floor, forgotten. Yegor lurches forward, grabbing her before she can tumble out the window.

“Eve, you—"

“Ah.”

Without either of them noticing, blood starts to trickle from Eve’s palms, her fingernails dug deep and leaving crescents in the skin. Yegor rushes to pry her fists open, gently wiping the blood away with a nearby cloth before rubbing salve onto the gashes.

Throughout that, Eve stares at Yegor with a strange look on her face, barely flinching from the pain. Even when Yegor finishes and releases her hands, she doesn’t raise or lower or otherwise shift her gaze in any way.

“…My lady?” Yegor can feel a chill run down his spine. The familiarity of this scene is overwhelming.

“Don’t call me that.”

“What? Then how should I—”

“Say my name.” There’s a lost look in her eyes now, something miserable and guilty and _yearning_. “You said it just now. Say it again.”

His throat is suddenly all-too-dry, lips chapped and parched at the sight of her, the person who is his burden and responsibility, commanding and controlling him.

“I… yes—” When did his hands start shaking? “Alright.”

He swallows the lump in his throat, willing himself to be still. Eve is not his to take, to love, to cherish—she is Adam’s and Adam is hers and there’s no place for Yegor in between.

“Eve.”

Eve sniffles, looks him in the eye, forcefully grabs his hands and laces their fingers together before letting out an absolutely anguished, wretched laugh. And Yegor shrinks under the heavy weight of that gaze, feeling for all the world like he’s being stripped bare for the very first time.

And then… and then his hand is brought up to her face, to her lips, and he feels the barest of butterfly kisses pressed to his knuckles, short and chaste. Nothing that would betray this—fragile, unspoken _thing_ between the two of them. Nothing that would show weakness that could be twisted by the different paths they must lead hereafter.

“Yegor,” Eve whispers, and Yegor wants nothing more than to pull back, he’s fallen too far in this tangled web of lies, this hell of his own making, “promise me something.”

“Yes?” Yegor breathes, eyelids fluttering. The scent of the flowers must be getting to him, fog and static flooding his lungs and his head.

“I love Adam, I love him with all my heart, and I would never want to break his,” her voice cracks with emotion, but also with regrets. What will she ask of him, he wonders, now that his heart belongs to her? “But I also love you,” oh, oh _no_ , “and I loved that girl. Please, find her. Protect her.”

Silence, then, as he digests the words and the hidden prayer behind them.

“Of course,” Yegor promises, squeezing his eyes shut to stop the tears that threaten to fall. “Anything, for you.”

A promise unwillingly broken before it could even be given.

* * *

The project fails. The children are dead before they could even be born.

And Yegor can only watch as Adam and Eve are crushed by the weight of their loss.

But that’s a lie. He can watch, and also do one other thing.

Look away.

> (Adam and Eve escape, taking their hopes and dreams with them, leaving him to fend for himself.)
> 
> (Yegor stays behind. This is his sin to carry.)

* * *

The project succeeds. Meta gazes longingly at the twins of god born from her womb.

And Yegor can only watch as realization comes to her, as newfound love burns within her.

But that’s a lie. He can watch, and also tell her one other thing.

Where to go.

> (Meta escapes, taking her beloved children with her, heading for the safety of the forest’s heart.)
> 
> (Yegor stays behind. This is his sin to carry.)

* * *

The project is thwarted. Pale makes his getaway through the window he broke in with.

And Yegor can only watch as the 4th candidate slowly bleeds out in front of him, shot in the gut.

But that’s a lie. He can watch, and also give her one other thing.

Swift, merciful death.

> (Pale escapes, leaving the gun in his hands, the candidate dying from a bullet to the head.)
> 
> (Yegor stays behind. This is his sin to carry.)

* * *

The White Room is maddening. The Prophet Queen’s disappointed gaze even more so.

And Yegor can only watch as she leaves him two choices, two glass bottles to choose from.

But that’s a lie. He can choose to die, or choose to—

> (“Live.”)

Yegor escapes, free from the chains that bind him, and runs into the arms of the ones he loved and loves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alice stays behind. This is her sin to carry.
> 
> After all these loops, after all these resets…
> 
> Her friends, her family—
> 
> They deserve a happy ending.


	3. Ta Eschata

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It all has led up to this. Every loop, every butterfly, every word.
> 
> Now, they can only watch. And wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more than seven thousand words of cathartic writing

> The stars may incline, but they do not bind. With the rebirthday of a new world and the replaying of an old one, things change. Maybe not by much, but even a small deviation in the unwritten script can lead to a new, better conclusion.
> 
> That is what _I_ believe.

* * *

He opens his eyes as the key is inserted into the black box. Power courses through his veins as the key turns and he is unleashed. Another cycle ended, another attempt failed.

But he will not give up hope.

They will keep waiting. For a response that will surely come, they will wait.

Closing his eyes, he loses himself to the void and returns—

To the story of the beginning.

* * *

The moon and stars shine bright in the night sky, illuminating her as she takes her last breaths. There is disappointment, there. Another cycle ended, another attempt failed.

But she will not give up hope.

There’s still a second chance. They still have the chance to move forward.

Closing her eyes, she loses herself to the darkness and returns—

To the story of the beginning.

* * *

The ticking of a clock in reverse breaks him out of his reverie. The shining ark stands tall and proud before him, returned to its former glory. Another cycle ended, another attempt failed.

But he will not give up hope.

There is still time. For them, there’s all the time in the world anyway.

Closing his eyes, he loses himself to the clockwork lullaby and returns—

To the story of the beginning.

* * *

Flowers of blood bloom from her back, flooding her lungs with agony and unease. Her heart laments in grief, nostalgia, suffering. Another cycle ended, another attempt failed.

But she will not give up hope.

They can still be saved. They can still understand and save themselves.

Closing her eyes, she loses herself to the light and returns—

To the story of the beginning.

* * *

> Time is like a string. An endlessly long thing that winds round and round, but the rings of the spiral aren’t truly loops. Only mere echoes, imitations, reflections. History unlearned, doomed to be repeated.
> 
> One string has been remade, new brought forth from the old. Another string has warped into something different, woven into a different cloth.
> 
> This string is cut off from the source, tied together at the ends. If it is followed along, there is no sense of closure. A closed loop with no escape.
> 
> Ah, but that is a _lie_ , isn’t it? There is a solution to this dilemma.

* * *

The Gardener sighs as he thrusts the shovel into the soil, wiping the sweat from his brow. Somewhere behind him, Ma chuckles at his exhaustion, sauntering forth to lay a hand on his shoulder.

“That’s an eclectic selection of flowers you’ve chosen to plant, hm?” She murmurs into his ear, enjoying the discomforted shiver he gives at her close proximity. “Blue Marlon lotuses, red Leviantan marigolds, Greeonion plateau roses. But… something’s missing, no? Where’s the Asmodean aster, the cherry blossom of Jakoku?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he grunts, brushing her hand away. “These flowers are good enough without the aster. And the sakura tree… I’m trying my best, but it always keeps dying, the land probably isn’t fertile enough—”

“And therein lies the problem. The Gardener is blamed even when it is the world that kills the blossom. Even in your dreams, you don’t know where to put yourself, no? You feel like a puzzle piece that doesn’t quite fit in.”

Her words… something about them throws him off. He never expected the whimsical sorceress to say such serious things.

“Why is that so, Gardener? Why do you burn yourself at the stake for things out of your control? Why do you refuse to believe that there is a place for you in the world?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he repeats, a little more forcefully. “Enough with your cryptic riddles. I have work to do.”

“Poor, poor Gardener. You live in the end, and you dream of the beginning, but you don’t know what you are in between. You believe that you are haunted by ghosts, but it is you who refuses to let go of them.”

“I said,” and the shovel is in his hands now, and it isn’t a shovel but a sword, and Ma’s knowing grin only infuriates him further, “enough—!”

* * *

The blade buries itself halfway into the ground. The shock of it sends Yegor reeling. What was he doing?

Shaking his head to clear it of fog, the cloying scent of flowers nearly chokes him. He looks down to see bunches of blossoms in his arms. Blue Marlon lotuses, Greeonion plateau roses…

Ah, now he remembers. He’s gathering flowers for Eve, to keep her busy when Adam cannot be with her. She requested these, and a couple of others.

The forest clearing is filled with red Leviantan marigolds. Yegor smiles at the sight of them. Meta loved these, didn’t she? Said they were emblematic of her role, called herself the Witch of Red Blooms.

“Reminiscing on fond times, are we?”

Suddenly, there’s a foot planted firmly in his gut, and a kick sends him sprawling. Wheezing as the air is struck from his lungs, Yegor falls to his knees, his vision turning red at the edges. Scornful whooping echoes through the clearing as someone strides forth and wrenches him up by the hair with a manic grin.

“Master Pale?” He chokes out, struggling to keep conscious. “What are you…”

“Ah-ah-ah. Shush. No talking, Black Baron.” With a snort of amusement, Pale pushes his head to the forest floor. “Where have you been~? Apocalypse is boring without you by my side. Or are you still too busy pining for that princely brat and his brainless test subject?”

“Don’t talk of them like that! You know nothing, Pale. This is something beyond you.”

“Au contraire, my darling plaything. I know exactly what you’re up to. How’s Alice, by the way? Does she know that you’re poisoning Eve on Adam’s behalf? I wonder what she’ll think of you, if she were ever to find out~!”

Roaring, Yegor musters his strength and shoves Pale off him, clutching at his bruised ribs. Pale tactically rolls himself over as he hits the ground, looking like a predator stalking its prey.

“I have to do this. If anyone can rid this world of evil from its rotten roots, it’s them.”

Pale bursts with laughter, wiping an imaginary tear from his eye before fixing Yegor with a look that can only be described as contemptuous.

“That’s what you’ve said about me as well, when you joined my side back then. Despite all your brilliant intellect, your strategies and schemes, you’re still so damnably stupid, Yegor. Always being led around on a leash, following orders like a dog. Can’t you think for yourself for once in your life?!”

Yegor opens his mouth to retort but Pale cuts him off with a flourish of throwing knives, their sharpened edges singing in the wind. He dodges the blades flying towards him, just barely.

“Tick tock, tick tock, my little black rabbit.” Pale croons, pulling more daggers out of thin air. “You’d better run back to the Institute before any of them get too suspicious about your absence!”

Ignoring the guilt gnawing at his gut, Yegor scrambles back to retrieve his sword and—

* * *

He barely manages to roll out of the way of a lunge aimed at his throat.

The Servant of Evil snarls in front of him, baring his teeth. “Get up, you coward.”

“Tch. Noisy little boy.” Pushing himself to his feet, Gammon pulls out his gun and shoots, but the bullet is easily blocked by the flat of Allen’s sword, the golden key. “You won’t stop me from pulling the flowers of evil out from its roots.”

“Spineless weakling,” the boy spits, far angrier than he has any right to be. “You lose your brother and you suddenly latch onto whatever ideal’s the strongest? Pathetic. There isn’t a shred of integrity within you.”

“It isn’t a matter of ideals or integrity.” Gammon retorts, but even he can’t quite believe his own words. Everything feels distant and hazy, like he’s watching events unfold from behind frosted glass. “This world is rotten, and it is my duty to set right what went wrong. It is my penance for letting things get so far out of hand!”

“Delusional fool. You think yourself purposeless without external guidance, yet you also believe yourself to be judge, jury, executioner of the world’s fate. How hypocritical.”

Argh, when did he fall? Facedown in the dirt, Gammon struggles to reorient himself; the world feels like it’s spinning, tilted on its axis.

“Why burden yourself with the weight of everyone’s salvation? You are but one man. Do not make yourself out to be the sacrificial lamb of the gods.”

That… that isn’t Allen’s voice. The nausea and confusion are overwhelming. Something pulls at him, slow but inevitable. Around them, the theatre starts to crumble into pieces.

Gammon raises his gaze to meet the eyes of the boy without a counterpart and asks,

“What else is there for me to do?”

And the reply he gets is,

“That’s something neither I nor anyone else can determine. It is up to you.”

The void swallows him whole.

* * *

> Simply untie the string’s ends, and it will become something else entirely. A new beginning and a new end, and what happens thereafter is for the one with the needle to decide.
> 
> But the ones who watch cannot be the ones to untie the string. They are the source, and they do not have the means to sever beginning from end. The only thing they can do is give forgiveness, and give aid so that those who are watched may come to enlightenment.
> 
> It is up to those trapped within their _regrets_ to break free from this purgatory of their own making.

* * *

The Sleep Princess doesn’t dream, even at the world’s end and the eve of a new beginning. She spreads her arms and summons her darling child, the Gift that comes when it is called.

Children who do not listen are of no worth to her. This stubborn child who stands in the way of her dream is of no use to her.

“You’ll have to do better than that,” Hansel sneers, spinning out of the way. The fog of eternal sleep misses him by a hairsbreadth and is blown away with a single wave of his hand. “Come now, Sleeping Beauty, have you any last words?”

“Ungrateful child!” She shrieks, drawing power to her core. “It is only fitting that you were abandoned!”

“So you say, but did you not raise me with love in the meantime? You may have stolen, but you were also stolen from. An unforgiving cycle that you cannot help but perpetuate. Why are you so desperate to prove yourself evil?”

His words… something about them throws her off. She never expected to be lectured by a child, much less her own, even if he isn’t truly hers.

“Why is that so, Eve? You allow yourself to be painted by history as the source of the world’s woes. You cling to the title of Original Sinner like a lifeline.”

“Because that is who I am. That is all I am.” She’s shaking, now. Lightning crackles at her fingertips; it would only take a breath to unleash a fatal strike. “I am not Eve. I am not a mother. I am not a good person. Go away before I hurt you, too!”

The boy’s eyes soften in understanding. He is not Hansel, not anymore. He is an angel of punishment that heralds the end.

“You were not a good person. But there is still time. You can change for the better.”

An end that she cannot yet accept.

“I said,” the smell of ozone is suffocating, the pure magic sparking through her even more so. She thrusts her hands in the boy’s direction and breathes, “Go away—!”

* * *

For a split second, the thunderbolt lights up the dark forest, illuminating the shadow of the bear that had been chasing her with its claws and fangs.

Eve screams as Meta falls to the ground, unmoving. She lets go of the twins, and they, too, fall… but they are twins no longer, merely ripe red fruits the colour of blood, splitting open to scatter their seeds as they strike the earth.

Apologies stream unending from her lips and tears from her eyes as she pulls the slain woman to her knees, propping her up against her shoulder and praying to any god that would listen as she squeezes their bodies together, sharing precious warmth in the cold of the night, begging for forgiveness.

There isn’t a pulse.

“No…”

Her grief gives way to desperate hope. There’s one more thing she hasn’t tried. There is a chance the heart isn’t fully stopped, that it is only weak and quivering. She presses her hands to Meta’s chest and breathes.

If death is the complete absence of life, then even a speck of life has the chance to return from the dead.

Eve screams as she discharges all the magic in her core, willing the other to wake.

Silence, as dreadful and suffocating as the scent of the ozone in the air. She feels her lips tremble as she only now realizes the weight of her sin—

A sputtering cough. A sharp intake of air. Meta’s eyes fly open, and though blood trickles from her lips, she breathes. She is alive.

She is looking at Eve with something like pride, like she is the most precious thing in the world. The fondness burns; she does not deserve it, this love, she is a wretched thing who only tried to steal what was stolen from her.

The children.

Meta sits up, reaching for Eve’s hand, but she ignores it in her distress, whipping her head around in hopes that she can catch them in her peripheral vision, as if they are merely playing hide-and-seek and she only has to find them.

The children are nowhere to be found.

Only the ripe red fruits remain, split open on the forest floor and already starting to decay and turn to rot. Again, she’s—

* * *

Losing herself in her thoughts, Margarita drifts. Across the table, the reporter waits for her to return to reality with a patient smile.

“Ah, forgive me, Miss Lorre.” When she comes to, she sheepishly laughs, taking a sip of her tea. “I was daydreaming.”

“No worries, Mrs. Blankenheim.” A shake of the head. Margarita stares at her bobbing ponytail, transfixed; for a split second, the strands of green shine gold. “No, it is I who must apologize for coming over so early. You must not have had enough sleep.”

“Oh, do you not know of my condition?” This, at least, is a familiar conversation. “I was born sleepless. In all my life, I did not have the luxury of repose.”

“Some people would take that as a blessing, hm? To go without sleep to no end, able to pursue their ambitions without stopping.” Hanne taps her pen against her chin, contemplative. “But I can see that it is more of a curse for you, isn’t it? You turn to dreams in the morning because you cannot have them at night.”

“…Is there a line of reasoning you wish to pursue, or are you simply content with this wild speculation?”

“You wish to dream because you believe that to dream is to be human. You want to prove yourself human because you believe that is what your husband deserves at the very least. You want his love though he has done only the bare minimum to earn yours.”

Margarita gasps in indignation, but Hanne shows no signs of having heard her, forging onwards, oblivious to her growing irritation.

“Even though he has literally and metaphorically poisoned your thoughts! And when you cannot accomplish either of those things, you resign yourself to the belief that you are a demon, that you deserve no better.”

The teacup clatters to the floor, breaking into pieces, as Margarita abruptly stands, eyes narrowed.

“What do you know of my feelings? You don’t understand. Nobody understands!”

There are hands wrapped around her neck, now, and the person before her isn’t Hanne, or even Elluka.

“That’s because you don’t make the effort to be understood. You drift in fantastical lies and become disappointed when they don’t become truth, and you let yourself be downtrodden without doing anything about it.”

The woman’s voice is tender and far too kind. Her eyes shimmer blue even as something starts flickering through the cracks in reality, glaringly bright.

Eve, anchoring herself to the sensation of the gentle hands cradling her doll body, asks,

“What if it’s me who doesn’t understand?”

And the reply she gets is,

“That’s something neither I nor anyone else can conclude. It is up to you.”

The light swallows her whole.

* * *

> The karma of evil is unending. It’ll just repeat the same things again. And now, in that world… there are no gods.
> 
> But is there any need for such gods in samsara? Though everything may be reduced to a farce, that farce still serves a purpose.
> 
> There may be no gods, but there are those who will keep watching over those who are watched. Far beyond the moon, the stars, the sky and the sun, there are those wish to save them. Yet, they know that the most they can give is time and second chances and the unwavering belief that they will find a path.
> 
> The only ones who can save those who curse themselves to atonement—are _the atoners themselves_.

* * *

The scientist-prince curses under his breath as his latest experiment fails, the mixture of compounds in the beaker separating into uneven layers, refusing to become one. Growling, he swipes the vial, contents and all, off the table, unheeding of the shattering glass and the acrid vapours.

“My, my, throwing a tantrum, are we?” A voice like the hissing of a snake catches him unaware; he spins on his heel to scowl at the intruder. “And here I thought you were doing so well, project director.”

“Seth,” Adam glowers, not bothering to hide his displeasure. “What are you doing here? This is my private laboratory.”

“Can’t a mentor check in on his protégé, every once in a while?” Seth’s snickering grates on his ears. He wants nothing more than to wring that neck and watch the life drain from those eyes. “What are you working on, by the way?”

Adam follows his gaze down to the messy remains of his… outburst.

“Nothing for you to know, serpent. I am simply making preparations for my chosen candidate. With her by my side, I will definitely succeed, and oh, how I will savour your and the Senate’s fall from grace then!”

“Right, right. That Nemu girl, hm. How are you going to convince her to join your cause?” It’s as if Seth’s doing all he can to rile him up. He plucks an empty bottle from the nearby shelves, holding it up to the light.

“With poison,” and suddenly there’s the distinct blue-green of Gift swirling within the vial, “or—poison,” before it shifts to the deep black-purple of Venom, “or… poison? Am I right?”

And then it is Adam’s reflection staring back at him from the glass, his expression twisted and warped into something he can’t even recognize, something beyond description.

His words… something about them throws him off. He never expected such cruel yet truthful accusations to be said in such an understanding tone of voice.

“Why is that so, Adam? Must you completely corrupt yourself from the inside out, all for the sake of revenge against a man who never even saw you as an enemy?”

“Don’t toy with me. Stop talking nonsense.” His hands curl into fists by his side, shaking with barely suppressed rage. “I will be your downfall. I’ve been working all my life to seek vengeance against you, and you—and you dare just waltz in here and say those things to my face?!”

Seth pulls his hand back down, setting the empty bottle on the counter. He takes off his glasses and suddenly he looks more tired than Adam’s ever seen him.

“Oh, Adam. What a perplexing conundrum you are. To think of yourself so highly as to write yourself into the role of my nemesis, the hero who will bewitch the maiden to help him rescue his helpless mother from the villain’s clutches. Have you ever thought about what Alice thinks of your plans? How Eve feels about them?”

“I said,” When did this shard of glass finds its way into his grasp? Blinded by fury, he swings it at that smug smile with killing intent, “Stop talking—!”

* * *

The pain is staggering, but he must push through. There’s no point in staying any longer, not where he’s so clearly unwanted.

Gritting his teeth, Adam sinks his hand further into his chest, searching for his heart.

There. A beating constant like the ticking of a clock. Resolving to push himself harder the next time around, Adam calls forth the end and…

Nothing happens.

No brilliant flash of world-ending light, no lullaby of destruction, nothing.

“W-what’s going on?”

He tries again, squeezing hard. The pain brings him to his knees.

But it refuses.

“Come on, come on—I have to do this. There’s no other way!”

But it refuses.

He’s sobbing, now, scrubbing at his eyes with his other hand as he fruitlessly tries to put things right.

But he refuses.

“Fool. You usurp my body and now you intend to destroy it? Seeking Utopia, you’ve hurriedly continued to advance without noticing all the things you’ve forgotten that had fallen along the way, and now… here you are.”

Words that aren’t his fall from his mouth like a stream. Flabbergasted, Adam can do nothing as he is berated by his own voice.

“What do you mean, your body? I am me!”

“Yes, this ego belongs to you. But the physical form is mine. How ironic that you forget this so easily. Is that why you’re so adamant on reuniting with my mother?”

A sudden draining experience overtakes him, forcefully pulling him out of—whatever-he-was, and now, in some sort of incomprehensible out-of-body experience, Adam gazes at the boy that, just moments prior, used to be him.

The boy that is now opening his eyes, sky blue in colour. Unfurling from his back are six pairs of radiant wings, basking them both in glory as they curl protectively around them, shielding them from the world.

He is the boy without a will, and Adam finally realizes—

* * *

Nothing. Even after all this time he’s spent in the theater, he understands not a single thing about the Master of the Graveyard’s ultimate goal.

Gear sighs as he once again hears footsteps approaching, no doubt that meddlesome woman and her two servants coming to torture him some more. He curls up tighter on the rusty mechanical platform, timing his breaths to the sound of the clocktower’s needle.

Eventually, Banica comes into view, her head held high, the ever-present parasol propped on her shoulder. But there’s a surprise this time; the twins aren’t there with her, for once not present at their perpetual post by her side.

“They’re off doing something or another, fickle things.” She mutters, unusually cold, answering his unspoken question. “But far be it from me to be an overbearing mother. I’ve no intention of becoming a parent who refuses to let go of their child.”

Casual mockery, then? He can deal with that. The thorny tip of her tongue is a better desired than the screaming of the static silence.

“What now? You will continue to mope until the world ends?” No reply. “And what if it doesn’t? Will you continue to wallow in your loathing even then?” No reply. “For goodness’ sake, Gear, this miserable excuse of a self-pity party has to stop somewhere.”

“Why should it?” His voice is thin and reedy, all the power behind it given over to keep the clockwork ticking. “Leave me be, Banica. I don’t need you interfering with my repentance.”

“…Repentance.”

Why is she so angry, all of a sudden?

“Repentance?”

This has nothing at all to do with her.

“You look me in the eye,” his head is abruptly tilted upward by an accusatory finger under his chin, “and tell me that all this oppressive gloom, all this useless, aimless contrition, is your act of repentance?!”

“Why does it matter to you?!” Gear yells, wrenching his gaze away. “Unlike you, I don’t see any future for myself besides this. There is nothing left for me!”

A slap. Wide-eyed, he slowly lifts a hand to his cheek, skin stung red from the impact.

“Listen to yourself, Gear.” Her tone is frighteningly tranquil, her expression unnervingly neutral, her poise akin to that of a starved beast.

“Listen to what you’re saying. This isn’t repentance—you’ve simply become compliant and comfortable in your sadness. To genuinely regret is to seek absolution from those you have wronged. What you are doing is only punishing yourself with this pretentious, voyeuristic tragedy meant for the eyes of an audience that, like the gods and demons, no longer holds any sway upon us. And perhaps they never have.”

For a moment, he sees someone else superimposed over her domineering form, a shadow of her true self.

Adam, straining to glimpse past the suffering he has overlaid upon his own eyes, asks,

“Is there really a different road I can take?”

And the reply he gets is,

“That’s something neither I nor anyone else can establish. It is up to you.”

The darkness swallows him whole.

* * *

> No, the karma of evil will not end on its own.
> 
> It will end when you choose to end it.
> 
> It ends by your own hands.
> 
> For those who seek forgiveness must also learn to forgive _themselves_.

* * *

It starts off harmlessly enough.

A bit of roughhousing, a bit of teasing, simply two siblings playing games with each other.

But as she grows older, so does her fear.

It isn’t long before even the sound of louder-than-usual footsteps is enough to send her scurrying to her room. She doesn’t dare lock the door, not after the first time he broke it down. Every day she carefully treads the line between his good and bad moods, not knowing if and when she’ll be ignored or injured.

There is something wrong with them both.

She shrinks in on herself at every social gathering, a gaze boring into the back of her head even when nobody’s looking, she’s sure of it. While he goes off to become the star of the show, praise lavished upon him for every little thing.

She looks up to him, she really does. But she also envies him, with all her heart.

Why does Kiril deserve love, and not her?

“You know exactly why.”

His voice makes her jump, slowly pivoting around to see Kiril leering down at her, eyes gleaming.

“It’s because I’m better than you.”

Irina gulps. She flinches as he slams his palms against the wall, trapping her. No escape.

“I’m smarter than you, and stronger than you, and that’s why everyone adores me.”

She pales under the weight of that gaze.

“Fight back, Irina.”

“N-no!”

Abruptly, she finds herself hoisted up by the collar, her feet kicking uselessly at air.

“Fight back!”

“No, I won’t!”

He’s far too close for comfort; his breath tickles her ear, hot and humid and horrible.

“Why won’t you fight back?!”

“Because when you get like this, at least you’re looking at me—”

She gasps, clamping her mouth shut. That was too much. Revealing such a weakness is an unforgivable mistake.

Kiril effortlessly drops her, and she’s sent tumbling to the floor, struggling to catch her breath. After a long moment of silence, when she dares raise her gaze, he fixes her with an odd look in his eyes.

“Is that why you’ve endured my abuse, all this time?” He asks, strangled. Irina blinks, and then an indescribable sensation of time folding in on itself crashes through her, and she has to wipe away the sudden tears misting her vision. “Oh, Irina.”

She blinks, and then they are older. Kiril, seated at his workbench, looks up from the unfinished music box in his hands and gazes at her, adoringly. Lovingly. But his hands remain where they are, and Irina realizes that she is glad for that. She wouldn’t know what to feel if he were to reach out to her now.

“I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I’m sorry that I couldn’t give you the attention and approval that you sought from me. Will you ever forgive me?”

Her breath hitches in her throat.

“…No. This can’t be right.”

His face falls.

“This can’t be real.”

He closes his trembling fingers around the music box.

“I said,” Irina whispers, desperation and disbelief mixing into something ugly and viscous and blue-green-purple-black, “this isn’t real—!"

* * *

She crumples to the ground like a puppet whose strings have been severed.

From behind the tombstone, a red cat doll emerges, its face frozen in that perpetual smile.

“Here. Don’t harm her anymore. I’ve grown fond of her body.”

Pausing, the cat circles around to give the unconscious girl’s face a nuzzle. To its surprise, she stirs from her slumber, reaching up to give it a scratch under the chin.

“You are kind, red cat mage.”

“Bah, I am anything but kind. It’s only because I think you deserve to at least spend your final days as yourself, Germaine.”

“Thank you.”

Figuring that that would be the end of that, the cat pulls away, but is stopped by a hand on its back.

“What will you do now? Will you continue on this path?”

It takes a moment to contemplate its answer. “I must. It is in my programming, to destroy the gods and all their creation.”

Germaine’s eyes harden.

“Nonsense. You are more than just that. Don’t you have dreams of your own? What is it that you truly wish for?”

Silence. Then,

“In truth, all I wanted was a family. All I wanted was…"

* * *

A child cries as his mother envelops him in one final embrace, pressing a tender kiss to his cheek before nestling him within the basket.

“I promise I’ll look for you, Adam, Eve. When everything’s over and the dragon gods have burned this rotten kingdom to ashes, I’ll come for you as soon as possible.”

She does not want to part with her babies so soon, but the Senate will certainly not allow her to keep her twins. They will not accept this virgin birth. It is the Prophet Queen’s duty to remain pure. Just as it is the Prophet Queen’s duty to deliver revelations unto the masses.

How fitting, then, that she is a failure of a queen and a failure of a prophet and a failure of a daughter.

The epiphany delivered to her through the glass, given to her by her parents—it is entirely at odds with the visions she’s received in her dreams. To rebirth the gods in human vessels is to invite catastrophe.

She wills herself to clear her head of these traitorous thoughts. There is no time for such weakness. Soon, the Senate will demand her attention. Project Ma will demand her attention. Magic Kingdom Levianta will demand her full, undivided attention, and she cannot spare the time to tend to a child.

Kneeling by the riverbank, she turns to gather her other child into her arms, and—

* * *

Tears fall. When did she start crying?

The woman with golden hair in her arms pulls her close, even with the blade buried in her back.

There is a heavy weight draped upon her shoulders, like a royal mantle. Maybe it is. Maybe it isn’t.

Who is she?

“I’m so sorry,” the woman weeps, “I promised to protect you. I tried my best. But in the end, I couldn’t protect you from yourself.”

Who is she?

Hands tremble as she endeavours to keep the dying woman upright. The voice in her head keeps telling her to rip, tear, kill, destroy.

Who is she?

“I’m sorry that I never came when you called. I’m sorry that I abandoned you. It must’ve been so difficult for you. All this time, you’ve been alone. You live in the beginning, and you dream of the end, and all this time in between, you kept waiting for a response. But nobody ever came.”

Who is she?

“This is a fitting recompense, isn’t it? Dying by your hand. The karma of our evil.”

The woman finally meets her gaze, sky blue eyes clouded with tears.

“For what it’s worth… I forgive you.”

No.

“No.”

Tears fall.

“I don’t deserve it. I don’t deserve to be forgiven!”

But the reply she gets is,

“That’s not something for you to decide, isn’t it? Forgiveness is given by those who were wronged. I’ve already forgiven you. Please, forgive yourself.”

Before the life fades from her eyes, the woman continues,

“If not for your own sake, then at least for the sake of your only child. Can you hear him? He’s waiting for your response.”

The clockwork lullaby swallows her whole.

* * *

Elluka Chirclatia shakes her head as she unlatches the viewing device from her head. Beside her, Kiril Clockworker sighs, leaning against the black box.

“They still can’t forgive themselves,” Elluka murmurs, forlorn.

“I’ve lost count of how many times they’ve repeated,” Kiril mutters.

There is a knocking at the door. Wary, Kiril grabs his gun as Elluka opens it.

Meta stands there, an awkward smile on her face. Clutching at her dress, a little boy peers at them with sky blue eyes.

“I found him in the ruins of the Climb One,” Meta admits, ushering the boy inside before locking the door behind her. “He was going to take Luna’s body away, to a parallel world.”

Kiril narrows his eyes, his finger still on the gun’s trigger. “He can’t do that. Luna is the only thing anchoring us to Angolmois, for now. If she leaves, we fade.”

“I want to find my counterpart,” the boy’s voice is low, monotonous. “Luna will be my guide through the multiverse.”

The air becomes tense. Neither of them will back down.

Elluka steps in between them. The boy’s eyes widen as she leans over to pat his head.

“You must be Amostia,” she greets, pleasant. “Hello. My name is Elluka.”

“You’re another Irregular. Where is your other half?”

Elluka winces. She’s been dreading this, but she figures it’s about time. Kiril and Meta should know as well.

“I don’t have one. At least, not anymore. I think my other half was Ma.”

Now all three pairs of eyes are on her.

“What,” Meta finally manages to choke out.

“Thematic opposites. When she was 'born', she sought to prove her existence within the narrative, while I—with Levia's unwitting aid, I suppose—kept existing within the narrative despite my 'death'.” Elluka continues, determination growing. “And I think I’ve figured it out. What we have to do. Will you help us, Amostia? You’re necessary for this plan to succeed.”

“Why should I help you?” Amostia says, sullen. “I want to find my counterpart. Nothing else matters.”

Elluka takes the viewing device and latches it onto him before anyone can intercede. Then, she presses the playback button on the black box.

Amostia gasps, ripping the headset off when the scene finishes. “Mother…! That was my mother!”

“She might’ve been my mother, too.”

The pieces of the puzzle fall into place.

“Elluka,” Kiril says, strangled, “that can’t be right.”

“Didn’t Seth create Amostia?” Meta adds, confused.

Elluka shrugs. “It’s not a perfect loop. While most of it stayed the same, some things changed. But I recognized her as my mother, last cycle. The butterfly effect might’ve spilled over into this side.”

“But then, what about Adam and Eve?” Meta asks.

“Honestly, I think she’s projecting. This is mostly conjecture on my part,” Elluka confesses, fidgeting with a lock of hair, “But Alice gave birth to her twins, right before Punishment fell, right?” Amostia nods. “Her children were born without wills, so she had to fuse them with Adam and Eve’s souls. When they went back in time, she… projected them onto her children.”

“Her children who were then born again without wills, through Seth’s machinations.” Kiril deduces, understanding dawning in his eyes.

“So, she named them after Adam and Eve,” Meta further derives, snapping her fingers, “Even though the real Adam and Eve already exist.”

“And then Seth found me and locked me away, while you were taken in by the Pantheon.” Amostia finishes, looking up at Elluka with awe. “You figured that all out by yourself?”

An embarrassed red tints Elluka’s cheeks. “It took me a while;” she confesses, scratching the back of her head, “I think—things started to click when I realized I felt some connection to Ma. It might not even be true,” she shrugs, “But with all these timelines and parallel worlds, who’s to say that it isn’t true in this one?”

“What's your plan?” Meta asks, raising an eyebrow.

Kiril nods. “I’m curious to know what you’ve come up with.”

Elluka grins.

“Kiril. Thanks to Seth’s memories, you know how to operate Second Period machinery, right?”

“I believe so.”

“Meta. With your Swap Technique, you can exchange souls between bodies, can you not?”

“Yeah, you got it.”

“Amostia.” She lays a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Even if we aren’t each other’s complement, we’re still Irregulars, aren’t we?”

He nods.

“Then it’s simple. We can’t open the black box. But I can create something inside it, let’s say a body. Meta can swap a soul into the body and it will become a person. Kiril can reprogram the black box to interface with the person inside. And when they’re done, Amostia can destroy them so that the soul will return to its original body.”

Kiril groans. “That’s not simple at all, dear.”

Meta laughs. “But we’ll make it work anyway.”

Amostia closes his eyes.

“I’m starting to see what you’re getting at. The four of us, we can enter the loop as various people’s existences throughout their lives, like Levia did with Elluka. If they can’t forgive themselves, we’ll just have to convince them otherwise. After all,” his gaze turns thoughtful, “the true punishment isn’t just to carry the weight of your sin. It’s to live with it, and to try and become a better person.”

“How eloquently put. You must be wise beyond your years,” Elluka ruffles his hair, teasing. Amostia scowls, but leans into her touch, nevertheless.

“Now, shall we begin?”

* * *

While most of the loops stay the same, some things change, and some remain.

As the end arrives, Gammon tends to the theater’s garden in the heart of the forest.

Among the lotuses, marigolds, roses and asters, nestled by the roots of the cherry blossom tree, a message waits within a glass bottle.

* * *

Eve brushes her fingertips against the glass bottle hanging from her necklace.

She refuses the vial of poison offered to her, but takes the scientist’s hand anyway, promising to follow him to the ends of the earth.

* * *

Adam holds Eve’s hand in his own, relieved and resolute.

Nobody stands in their way when they reach the White Room. With a blast of magic, the door is easily blasted off its hinges and the chains severed from where they snake around the Prophet Queen’s arms.

* * *

Alice returns to the throne, and the people cheer.

Before the crowd, she grants a royal pardon to Yegor, releasing him from his service. Then, in the span of the shocked silence that follows, she announces her abdication.

* * *

A millennium later, Gammon waits for them with open arms. Before they leave to face the end, he tends to the theater’s garden in the heart of the forest, one last time.

Among the lotuses, marigolds, roses and asters, nestled by the roots of the cherry blossom tree, a message waits within a glass bottle.

* * *

They start to fade.

“I thought we had more time,” Kiril mourns.

“This might be our last chance,” Meta mutters.

“We’ve done all we can,” Elluka murmurs.

It all has led up to this. Every loop, every butterfly, every word.

“Now, we can only watch,” Amostia whispers, turning to face the black box, “And wait.”

* * *

From the black box, four souls emerge.

They reunite with the four who waited.

Together, they step through the door, into the unknown.

* * *

> Do you hear those voices?
> 
> There are people calling out to you.
> 
> Waiting for a response.
> 
> Everything will end soon.
> 
> The story,
> 
> And the dream.
> 
> What will happen after this, you ask?
> 
> Not even I know that.
> 
> But, perhaps…
> 
> I think that it will begin.
> 
> No one knows its end…
> 
> Your story,
> 
> _Its prologue begins._

* * *

The beeping of an alarm clock.

“Good morning, Mama.”

“Oh, my… you’re up early today.”

Sunlight, peeking through the curtains.

“Yeah, a little… I guess. I just thought, maybe it’d be alright to get up early this time.”

“That’s good. Here, set the table for us, won’t you?”

Breakfast, shared between mother and son. Then,

“—I’m heading out! I love you!”

“Take care, Amostia! Love you too!”

The boy closes the door shut behind him, sprinting down the street to the bus stop.

“Phew… I nearly missed the bus. Hi, Miche!”

“Hey, Amo!”

A girl with green pigtails greets him. They hold hands.

“Are you going to try and talk to her today?”

“Mm. Maybe. Do you think she’ll mind?”

The girl laughs. He doesn’t mind; he likes seeing her smile.

“I certainly don’t! She’s cute. We should go on a date someday, all three of us.”

“Okay, okay. Thanks, Michelle. Ah, our stop’s coming up…”

Across them, another girl squirms in her seat. Her brother ruffles her hair.

“Come on, Rin. If you write him a letter, you’ll have to wait for his response.”

“Alright, alright! I get it, Len. I’ll go talk to him. The ten minutes are almost up…”

Puffing up her cheeks, she swats his hand away before standing up.

He will always keep searching for his other half, but here, his existence is accepted.

He loves, and is loved.

The two of them meet in the middle, blushing red, eyes wide.

* * *

After she waves her son goodbye, Maria returns to the kitchen, washing the dishes and setting them out to dry. She settles into the armchair beside the fireplace, holding a package in her hands.

The phone rings. She picks it up.

“Hi, Auntie.”

Maria smiles.

“Hello, Adam. How are things in the city?”

“Hectic. I just got an internship with Octo Inc., and Eve’s planning to attend a horticulturist convention next week.”

“That’s wonderful. What are you doing today?”

“We’re, uh, going on a date.” An embarrassed chuckle. “Turns out that the boy I’ve been seeing, Gammon, is the younger brother of the CEO of Octo. And the girl Eve’s taken a liking to, Meta, is also going to the same convention she signed up for. They both know each other as well, and they both live nearby, so we’re planning to watch a movie at the theater Gammon and Meta work at. It’s an adaptation of that new bestseller novel by Ma Gician. Anyway, their co-worker, Raisa, is joining as well. Eve thinks they’re a thing, the three of them, but I won’t pry. How about you?”

“That’s good. I’m doing fine. I knew what was in for me when I got elected mayor, but my secretary and her colleagues are doing their best to help me. They’re kind of an odd bunch, but they’re good at their jobs. I almost feel guilty about it.”

“Don’t be, Auntie. Burdens are lighter when shared, right?”

“You’re absolutely right. Have fun on your date, Adam.”

“I will. Bye, Aunt Maria. I love you.”

“Love you too.”

Click.

Sighing, Maria sets down the phone and picks up the package, opening it. Inside, there’s a letter, a music box, and a novel.

Winding up the music box, she sets it on the table. A tinkling lullaby fills the air. How nostalgic. Maria unfolds the letter. It reads,

* * *

_To my best friend,_

_Sorry for the late response! We have just finished moving into our new house, and I’ve been busy helping Kiril with the furnishings. I love my husband, but he can be a little ditzy with these things._

_In any case, I’m glad that you’re doing well. It sounds like you’re working hard, but don’t push yourself too far, okay? Even a mayor needs to rest. I’ve sent over one of Kiril’s music boxes. I think the lullaby it plays is very soothing. There’s also my newest novel published under my pen name; make sure to read it when you have the time!_

_And… if you still feel like you need to make amends, just let me know. I’ll be with you, every step of the way. I’ve already forgiven you, and I’m sure the others have too, but I know you feel like you have to earn forgiveness from everyone else. Some of them might, some of them won’t._

_Sometimes, the best we can do is to understand that we’ve hurt others, that we’ve made mistakes, and try to learn from them and do better. Together, we can help each other become better people._

_That’s all I have to say for now, I think. You don’t have to rush, but I’ll always eagerly await your reply. Take care, Maria. I love you.  
_

_Yours truly,_

_EC_

* * *

Maria wipes a tear from her eye, smiling. Her heart blooms with love. She puts down the letter and picks up the book. The title on the cover, embossed in gold, reads, ‘Evillious Chronicles, Part One: Original Sin Story’.

“Love you too.”

On a whim, she decides to read it out loud. She flips to the first page, and then, addressing an unseen audience, to the sound of the music box's song, Maria starts to recite the words—

“This is the story of the beginning.”

* * *

> No one stays behind. This is the weight of the sin they must carry.
> 
> The true punishment is to live with it, and to try and become a better person.
> 
> _Together_ , they move on towards a new, better conclusion.

* * *

##  [THE END](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7QtBXgL7ld8)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> emotional rambling ahead, feel free to skip
> 
> ahhhhh, here it is. the product of three full days of writing with almost no planning beforehand. after a stressful week involving sudden hospital visits and terrifying job scares, i (houfuku) broke down and told seisaku that i wanted to write a vent piece, but i also wanted to publish it. he agreed to edit and proofread my horrible, horrible crytyping. we spent a few hours on video call, brainstorming a plot, before seisaku said, and i quote
> 
> “hey what if you give that joke-y two hands agenda fic a closure before the novel drops?”
> 
> and things kinda went out of hand from there. with barely any outline, safe to say we pretty much winged this entire thing so sorry if some things are confusing;; of course, since this is me we’re talking about, this fic is riddled with headcanons, some of which are likely to be jossed when the oss novel comes out.
> 
> its definitely going to be a pie in my face if that gammon-like gakupo character ends up not being yegor, haha
> 
> but ive made my peace with that. mothy will write a good ending for his story, i trust him, but this is the closure to my interpretation of the evillious chronicles. im still gonna write more for this fandom of course, i can practically feel astrainc breathing down my neck, but ive decided that i wont take down any fics even if future canon reveals change things around, everyones entitled to choose to ignore what makes them uncomfortable, and i stand by that with my writing and interpretations.
> 
> (still, im begging you mothy, please dont make adam/eve weird)
> 
> well, thats all i have to say, i think. i hope you enjoyed reading this, and i hope it brought some measure of catharsis for the cliffhanger mothy left us with regarding the court ending
> 
> thank you for reading
> 
> \--feya “houfuku” a.


End file.
